


Aella Ellis

by applesmokedgouda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applesmokedgouda/pseuds/applesmokedgouda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I got an idea for like an American Sherlock who is like fem!Sherlock or something? I don't know. There will probably be a lot of this. Maybe. I don't know. I just had to write this out. I have some ideas, could go all together, could be a series of oneshots. We'll see where it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aella Ellis

"Aella Ellis. What." That was how my typical phone conversations began. With people, as my assistant Marc would put it, I was 'civil at best, completly intolerable at worst.' Marc's opinions of me didn't matter. He had been cheating on his wife for three and a half months now, with a man named Jeremy. He even had a drawer of his things at Jeremy's apartment. I don't know why I know these things; I just do.

"You're needed in London, Ellis." the disembodied voice from the other end of the line croaked.

"You forget, Director, that you are not my boss." I responded. "You cannot command me to go anywhere."

"And you forget, Ellis, that we have intel on everything."

"I know. And I like this new tactic! Blackmail can be quite fun, can't it?" I practically giggled. Marc looked at me with one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows higher than the other. I ignored him. "Case in point, Director, who is the new man in your life? You've got to tell me, Martha. I know he's not treating you like like the strong, independent woman you are."

I heard nothing but silence for a moment, then uncomfortable shifting, and a sigh. "Please, Aella. Not today."

I gasped in mock-surprise. "Last night he told you his kinks! Oh, Martha, you would _not_ bode well as a submissive."

"Dammit Ellis, I said not today!"

Nothing but silence on both ends. I looked at Marc. "Any cases? Clients?" He shook his head. "Nothing?! Alright." Returning back to the Director, I agreed with a sigh. "When do I leave?"

*****

"Marc, do _try_ and contain yourself." Marc had told his wife (Lisa? Lillian? Something with an "L"... Unimportant.) that we were going to London for a while. I told him to go to Jeremy and plan a long vacation, and he was (in order) shocked, outraged, fascinated, excited, and finally, giggly.

"Right. Sorry. How long have you...?"

"Since the day you met him, Marc. You know you can't hide anything from _me_."

"Aella, I... I don't know what to say."

"Say thank you for the vacation, and then call him. Also, consider telling your wife. She's been cheating on you since the microwave fire incident. One of the firemen."

"Right, I... Right."

"Marc, are you going to say something of import, or are you simply going to stand there repeating everything? I've got a plane to catch."

Marc said nothing. I sighed. As I walked past him, I pushed his jaw up, closing his mouth. "Catch flies..." I muttered.

*****

Director Martha Richards had a private jet waiting to take me from Langley to London. No passport needed; and I didn't need to pay my own way; always nice. Director Richards had approached me numerous times about joining the Central Intelligence Agency, and I had declined every offer. I was happier on my own. Of course, Marc was there to keep me "grounded" as it was "suggested" to me; and I use that term loosely, as I was almost imprisoned for a tiny misunderstanding that could have been fixed via some clerical work that was too tedious for me to do.

I spent the eight-hour flight reviewing the case file. There was some mass-murder/terrorist nonsense going on, and all the "best" in the country weren't able to solve it. So, in response to their mother country seeking their help, the United States government sent me. It was subtly "suggested" that after I solved this case, I was to be staying in the United Kingdom, and not to return home. I had a fleeting thought of Marc at that, but dismissed it as soon as it entered my mind.

When I landed, I was greeted by New Scotland Yard's chief Detective Inspector, a man named Lestrade. "Miss Ellis. A pleasure. Is what they say true?"

I sighed. "It isn't a party trick, sir. But yes. You just arrived here after finally signing the divorce papers your wife has been pushing on you for, oh, two years now? You've taken off your ring, but you're still uncomfortable with the fact that you're without her completely, and you keep fingering it and playing with it in your pocket; probably subconscious, but now you'll catch yourself every time you do it, because for the next few weeks, there won't be a day where you feel like you can go without it; it's just become so much a part of you.

"You know she's been going out on dates and seeing other men, but you still can't believe your wife is actually leaving you. One day, she'll be out on an evening walk with her date, and you'll see her across the street, and the next day, you'll forget you left your ring next to the coffee maker, and no one will remind you, because they know you need to forget about her completely. That's just about your wife. I could go into other details about you, but I think you know that what I can do is real, and not some party trick for you to exploit."

"Bloody hell." was all he said. It came out in a whisper.

"Oh, please. Now you're going to tell me how brilliant I am, aren't you? Either that or hit me. But you don't look the type to hit a woman; unless you're _authorized_ , that is."

"Oh, Miss Ellis. It is true. You really are the American Sherlock Holmes. Maybe even better."

"I can assure you, I have no connection to that name."

"You will."

*****

Lestrade brought me to the latest crime scene, which was nothing but the flat, burned-out crisp of the warehouse building it once was. Two uniformed officers were milling about, and a light drizzle was falling.

"Are you cold?" A deep voice from behind me asked.

"No. I'm Ellis." I responded without turning around. I could hear him, his footsteps, his breathing. He had a companion with them. Both sets of footsteps stopped just short of me; I was ready to fight if I had to. Hand-to-hand combat was nothing new to me. Neither was disarming more than one man at a time. I could have been a very popular underground fighter, had I no intellect. But I did, and I wasn't, and if these men attacked, I could fight them off easily.

Lestrade turned around, and, by the sound of it, clapped the other man on the shoulder. "John."

"Greg." He responded, his voice bright and chipper. "That her?"

"That's her."

"If you all wouldn't mind shutting up?" I asked forcefully, my American accent enhanced by my lack of attention on conversation.

"Don't bother, it's the same as the others." The baritone voice spoke again. I said nothing, continuing to scan the area until the man walked into my field of vision.

"If you wouldn't mind." I almost spat at him. He carried himself with what looked like cockiness or confidence to the untrained eye, but I saw a scared little boy, standing as tall as he could, because he feels like he has something to prove. His fingers said he played the violin, and his hands said he shot a gun in the past week. His physique, lean yet toned, suggested that he didn't subscribe to a workout regime, but was kept active by daily life. He would need a new pair of shoes in the next month or so, and his hair was shorter than he was used to it; meaning he had just gotten it trimmed. He was a younger sibling, to at least one brother, and this brother was in a position of power that he blatenly disrespected. Yet what I was drawn to most of all were his eyes.

They were icy blue, and cold; cruel and calculating. The way the barely-visible setting sun shone, I could see he was doing the exact same thing to me as I was to him. It took us a matter of seconds, but by the end of it, we knew the other's life story without having to do so much as exchange hands. I nodded to him, nearly imperceptibly, just a small up-and-down, which he returned with a slight smirk.

"Aella Ellis. You must be Sherlock Holmes."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I didn't really describe her appearance much, but before you say anything, I want you to know that it was a conscious effort because unless she needs to use her looks, Aella just doesn't care what she looks like.


End file.
